


Come With Me, Go Places

by whatsubtext



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:56:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsubtext/pseuds/whatsubtext
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis and Philippa behind closed doors after their reunion, at the end of the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come With Me, Go Places

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tryfanstone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryfanstone/gifts).



> The italicized lines are quotes from the lovely song Go Places by the New Pornographers, the glorious spirit of which made me think of Francis and Philippa's relationship from first hearing it.

_  
Yes, a heart will always go one step too far  
Come the morning and the four corners I see  
What the moral of the back story could be  
Come with me, go places  
_

In France, what seems an eternity ago, Philippa thought her heart would break, but not for the first time.

  
_And a heart will always stay one day too long  
Always hoping for the hot flashes to come  
_   


It had already broken on things unimaginably worse, and she had reforged it. The memory of that heart-pain had no fangs to it now, when she woke most mornings to a bright, tousled head of hair on the other pillow. Francis sang now for her, and his voice and hands caressed no other in the way that he offered their skills to Philippa.

Sometimes at the piano, or even at the breakfast table, she was seized by a slight difficulty of breath at the idea that she might have succeeded in divorcing him before she’d had the chance to discover that he loved her too, both fiercely and well. 

  
_For the glue to dry on our new creation  
Come with me, go places  
_   


_  
Come hell or full circle  
Our arms fill with miracles  
Play hearts, kid, they work well  
  
_

When Francis came back-- when she ran into his arms-- there was nothing left to fear about him but his absence. He was warm, and solid, and a little too thin through his clothes as they pressed together.

She needed to see how thin, and he was willing (though surprised) to let her divest him of his coat and shirt. Scars mapped his fine skin like spiderwebs in some places, shockingly dense and varied. Philippa traced the ways of them with her fingertips until Francis’s patience with it shivered and bucked like a nervous horse.

That was how she first learned he could, under the proper circumstances, be ticklish.

The sheer vulnerability of it stole her breath with wonder for a moment, eyes on his face as he breathed harder, gasped for air and fought not to fight her. His fingers curved hard into the bedclothes, and she knew he would do anything not to frighten her; anything she asked, and very possibly anything she _seemed_ to want.

It was a heady power and responsibility, and one Philippa was not sure she wanted to bear, but then they both held differently parts of each other as tenderly as chicks in the hand. One day, perhaps neither of them would need it anymore. For now, it was a gentle guardianship to keep in silence. It meant there were things she could not thank him for in words, too, so she thanked him best by taking the gift, running her hands over his warm skin more and more boldly until he made a lovely little choked sound that was not a sob, turning his head into the pillow beside it.

“Too much?” 

“Never,” he breathed, eyes shut. He still wore his breeches, but Philippa’s keen eye detected that it might not be entirely comfortable for him at this point in the proceedings. The harem's educators had been vague on certain aspects but remarkably clear on others, and oh, Francis _wanted._ It was in the lines of his body and beautiful face, the way his lips had gone rosy and parted, the way that he closed his eyes so she would not see their bright blue darken with hunger and flee.

  
Her own heart was beating faster, and she had definitely not had enough of him. Flight was not on the menu. Philippa was starting to feel like she wanted there to be considerably more to the proceedings than Francis himself seemed inclined to risk with a wife who had never been a lover, whom he’d sent violently ill once at the mere sight of him naked. Of course, when she put it that way...   


  
It clearly needed an instigator. If Francis continued to resist rising to the occasion, she would... she would do _something_ about it. Philippa’s hands were traitorous even after she’d decided, slipping closer to forbidden territory and then away, but she coaxed them into other places. If they would not unbutton Francis’s pants (and they would not, at least not yet), they _would_ brush the hard pink points of his nipples. It helped that he had no hair on his chest, or very little; there was nothing really to compare him to things she wanted to forget. His body was fine and young, strong and lovely despite all that had happened to it-- and that too was a difference, flesh and muscle that had known hard use, bones that could be seen-- and for all her nerves, Philippa wanted something from it. Wanted to feel it against her, perhaps, or... the idea of having Francis atop her made her hands go still and cold. Even though he was her own tame lion, he was still too much a lion for her.    
  
_Yet_ , she thought. _Yet._  
  


The trouble was that _yet_ was not _now,_ and Phillipa wanted something _now_ before they got to _yet._ Rather badly.

Francis was watching her with barely-parted lids when she looked back up at his face, sapphire gleaming in the scant light late afternoon allowed into her bedroom. “My camel,” he said softly after a moment of locked eyes. The rich and breathless timbre of his voice sent shivers down her core that were not at all unpleasant.

“I think,” Philippa told him both warmly and a trifle unsteadily, “I think that I may be _trainable_ to be a racer, but only a tolerable beast of burden.”

Something lovely sparked in his eyes as they held hers, more in the way of a steadying hand than any attempt at captivity. “Your stock is much too fine to be used for hauling. I should not worry, if I were you. No good handler would risk a prized racer.”

“Perhaps a light rider...?” It was all she could do to say it aloud; her throat wanted to close. But they were man and wife, and surely they would have to consummate it someday. She trusted Francis, achingly much. She wanted Francis, achingly much; but she had no idea how to begin that without jumping in headfirst, and that was... daunting, to say the least.

His mouth curved up at the corners, lips still flushed rosy with desire. “Or perhaps no rider at all, for a new racer. Sometimes they start on leads, you know. Galloping circles. Under halter.”

It took her a moment, then-- “Oh.” Philippa’s cheeks flushed, but it did sound like rather a good compromise. She reached for the buttons at his waistband. He didn’t help.

She hesitated. "Francis," she said at last in a huff of air. "I require your help."

He smiled a little more, and helped-- but only when she asked.

He was like velvet in the hand, velvet over iron, and she took her time learning what made him shiver here too.  

  
_Like classics, play aces  
Stay with me, go places  
Once more for the ages  
_   


Their stomachs eventually reminded them that they’d missed dinner, and Francis proposed a raid. They slipped laughing out of her bedroom in the dark of night, stealing through dimly-lit corridors and muffling their footfalls and making excuses to pull one another into alcoves to kiss.

It took them half an hour to reach the kitchen at that pace, but quite miraculously no one else seemed to be awake and abroad to notice. They retired again triumphant with bread, wine and cheese.

“A jug of wine,” Francis chuckled at her.

“A loaf of bread...” Of course she knew the poet. Now she thought she knew what the poet had meant, too.

“And thou.” He smiled, gazing upon her as if she were the only beautiful thing he had ever seen.

The same light shone in both their eyes. They forgot to devour the spoils of their raid for nearly an hour.

 _Come hell or full circle  
Our path blocked but sure we'll  
Make records, then set them  
Make copies, win races  
Stay with me, go places  
Once more for the ages_

**Author's Note:**

> Credit is also due to the poet Omar Khayyám (1048–1131, who wrote the immortal lines of love:  
> "A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou."


End file.
